


When Denial Is Not Enough

by Diminua



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, M/M, Rape Fantasy, just some dark thoughts, not-really dark Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: This is from a kinkmeme prompt: Where the rape fantasy belongs to the aggressor. In this case, and somewhat to his own surprise, Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 259
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale denies it at first. It’s not a difficult thing to do – everything about his friendship with Crowley is riddled with denial, including the fact that it’s a friendship at all. A wall-length tapestry could be woven from the lies Aziraphale has spoken, a vast smoke screen of words that still represent only one small portion of the falsehoods he has told himself.

Sometimes he wants to kiss Crowley. Those fantasies usually involve the warm seas and soft breezes of Korinthos, and thoughts of long limbs barely hidden under draped linen. They’re inappropriate but not disturbing. 

Other times he’d like to thump him over the head. For that there is invariably a reason, something Crowley has done, and although he hasn’t yet acted on the impulse, nor has he ever acted on the impulse to hug him (also, usually, a reaction to something that Crowley has done), and imagines he never will.

So this is just another smothered impulse to add to so many others. Something sharper and more predatory, a confused swirl of half-finished thoughts of clenching his fingers into Crowley’s hair and pulling him hard, down to his knees, or jerking him back to catch him around the waist and press him so tightly to Aziraphale’s body that the demon can’t fail to feel his excitement as he ruts against him. 

Other times he imagines hearing Crowley gasp, shocked at the sudden, unexpected aggression of it. 

He blinks the reveries away, tells himself that like all his strange and alien thoughts about his sworn enemy and occasional dinner companion, they mean nothing. 

When denial is not enough– somewhere in the sixth century between the founding of the monastery of St Kevin and the death of King Arthur – Aziraphale moves on to rationalisation. Obviously it’s because they’re hereditary enemies, and it’s his instinct, as an angel, to defeat Crowley. To pin him down and assert dominance over him. 

That it’s manifesting itself in a sexual way is just a quirk of the mind, possibly caused by Crowley himself, the wily.. well no, that’s not fair. Aziraphale has sense enough to know that Crowley probably isn’t tempting him on purpose, although the thought that he might be is rather pleasing, and leads very sweetly and smoothly to the thought of punishing Crowley for tempting him, muttering threats and blame in his ear while Crowley writhes beneath him, protesting weakly, not strong enough to push him away.

Crowley looks so fragile sometimes – bones visible at his wrists and his spine, wide serpent eyes. Beautiful and breakable. Possibly that, too, is at the root of these brutish impulses. Wanting to touch and knowing he mustn’t, cannot, ever do so. Wanting to smash what he cannot have. 

That, at least, he is ashamed of. He’s never been the smiting sort of angel, more the forgiveness and indulgence sort. If he hadn’t been having these fantasies since the invention of the wheel he would probably wonder if he weren’t falling. This heady mixture of lust and cruelty surely more befitting of a demon than an angel.

He wants to wrestle Crowley; master him, pin his slippery snakish self down. He has visions of throwing the demon’s ankles over his shoulders and pressing his knees back almost to his belly, watching tears run down his face while he’s taken by force.

How easy it would be to trap Crowley, who thinks of him as some soft, crepes-and-cream fattened creature, someone who needs rescuing from his own naiveté. He’d be surprised if he knew what shark like thoughts were lurking beneath Aziraphale’s prim smile. 

Of course he wouldn’t _enact_ them, any more than he’d smite his nemesis, however frankly irritating he is as the centuries go by and there are new and increasingly more combustible ways to charge about the place like a lunatic. When he’s not lounging on the couch like temptation incarnate, of course.

Oh! perhaps that’s it. Crowley has never been tempting Aziraphale deliberately. He just can’t help himself. Probably doesn’t know he’s doing it. 

Aziraphale supposes he shouldn’t find the thought of Crowley caught unawares; confused and pleading, sobbing and betrayed, quite as appealing as he does. He’s more or less made peace with his fantasies by now though. Indeed he’s realised, as the twenthieth century has progressed and social mores have loosened, that these desires are not as abnormal as one might have thought. Plenty of humans have them too, simply sublimating the impulse with popcorn and the silver screen, or incredibly poorly written but surprisingly addictive pulp fiction. As long as they remain safely in the world of make-believe, they’re no harm to anyone. 

It is in the same sort of spirit that Aziraphale puts pen to paper to write out a few elaborate fantasies of his own. The one involving holy water and the Bentley is utterly impractical, of course, and rather poorly served by Aziraphale’s writing style (which suffers from the need to paint a word portrait of what precisely went where and how and why and what the weather was like and how come they weren’t interrupted, that he’s undoubtedly inherited from reading early Victorian magazine serials), but he’s not writing them to be read, anyway. 

He’s better pleased with the one in the royal box at La Scala – curtains mostly but not completely drawn, and the curtain ties put to good use to keep Crowley quiet while he pounds into him. When he’s finished enjoying himself Aziraphale makes the demon come as well, against his will, leaving streaks of white against the dark plum colour of the carpets. 

He doesn’t write out what happens afterwards. Hesitates with his pen hovering over the page until it drips ink – he hates ballpoints, doesn’t think he’ll ever come round to them, but his old fountain pen definitely needs mending – and he has to set the sheet aside. 

The truth is that afterwards there would be recriminations, a shattering of this friendship they don’t have, perhaps the shattering of Crowley’s trust in anyone at all. 

The thought of it, of real hurt that he couldn’t shut off conveniently at the end of the last sentence of a whimsical little story, makes Aziraphale’s heart ache. 

Goodness, he thinks, pulling himself up. How silly. It’s not like he ever would. He’s unimaginably much too fond of Crowley, far, far fonder than he really ought to be, to do anything that might distress him (except, perhaps, to admit how he would like to dote on him, were he allowed. Take him to bed and lavish attention on him for days, by force if necessary). 

Hmm. Aziraphale carefully sets aside the sheet of paper he has just filled, and tucks another onto the blotter, fresh and ready for this new tale.


	2. Chapter 2

Actually, when the opportunity finally presents itself, Aziraphale admits nothing of the kind. Flattered that he is ‘just enough of a bastard’ to the gentle legato of piano keys and clink of glasses, relieved to find the world still spinning, his friendship or possibly more still intact, his heart fluttering madly, and myriad possibilities opening out before them, his idle lust-soaked daydreams seem neither appropriate nor relevant. 

Except they don’t go away. They’re not pressing, not anything he can't ignore when he already has so much of what he wants; everything he never dreamed they could have (and after his behaviour during the whole apocalypse debacle, frankly more than he thinks he deserves). They're just silly little fictions. Tingles of pleasure when Crowley is laying beneath him, head thrown back and the length of his vulnerable throat exposed, or on his knees with Aziraphale’s fingers curled lightly against his scalp, not daring to clutch for fear he’ll clutch too hard. 

The thought of _telling_ Crowley never crosses his mind – trying to explain that of course he adores him and wants to cherish him and share a life with him, and at the same time grasp and thrust and bully. To say things, less than cherishing things, that Crowley might think he means - or worse, believe, and be harmed by. 

Impossible, quite impossible. So Aziraphale gathers up the sheets of all his silly little scribbled fantasies and locks them safely away in the old writing slope he normally keeps his bank account books in. He ought, of course, to burn them, lest Crowley find out he is rather more of a bastard than he bargained for, but somehow Aziraphale can’t quite do that. 

Very occasionally, when he hasn’t seen Crowley for a few days, he takes them out and reads one or two. Perhaps even adds the odd scribbled paragraph, based on things they’ve done since. Places they’ve been, positions they’ve experimented with. 

He’s seen Crowley sleeping now, and that’s rather a rich vein once tapped. The thought of touching Crowley in his sleep, while he’s slumbering trustfully. Of pulling dark silk pyjamas down to reveal the palely freckled cheeks of his bottom, and waking him with one strong, smooth thrust. Pressing him into the pillows as he wakes and tries to rise, to throw him off, to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. 

Aziraphale quietly ignores the fact that his actual response to a sleeping Crowley is to tuck him in and smile beatifically at how absurdly, messily adorable he looks, curled up all snug with his hair rumpled every which way. Fantasy Crowley is not real Crowley. Fantasy Crowley is still a sort of enemy, or perhaps even a sort of doll, to be brought out and played with and put away again. 

Although he has added a few pieces - most recently - where he cuddles Crowley close and makes it all better, and which don’t fall into that pattern. Don’t seem to necessarily be following any particular fantasy, even. He suspects he just likes the idea of Crowley all teary and vulnerable and looking to him for comfort in a way the real Crowley probably never would. 

It’s not as if Aziraphale has been much of a comfort over the centuries is it? Lots to make up for, still, even if Crowley insists there isn’t. 

Crowley’s too nice for his own good, whatever he says about four letter words, and Aziraphale loves him madly for it (loves him madly anyway). Aziraphale absolutely will not be the one to risk spoiling what they have.

Nevertheless he is risking it, of course, just by having this half-filled box of fantasies. Resolves again to burn them all. Wavers, and puts it off. Slips it back on the shelf. 

He always thought that if Crowley were to find out that would be how. The box follows them to a new home on the coast, the quiet of an attic library with bespoke shelves built all around (and shortly afterwards another piece of paper is covered with ink, fantasy Aziraphale boasting how remote the cottage is, how the books offer almost complete soundproofing, how Crowley can cry for help all he wants, no-one can hear him). 

Aziraphale takes it out sometimes when Crowley is asleep in the bedroom, always very careful to return everything to it, to lock it properly and stow the key safely in a hollow copy of _Lady Audley’s Secret_ , even though he’s sure Crowley wouldn’t snoop through his things. He might be looking for stamps though, or a pencil sharpener, the sort of bits and pieces one would expect to find in a writing slope. 

(Later, much later, years after all is revealed, Aziraphale will disclose this worry, and Crowley will ask why on earth Aziraphale thought he would ever have wanted stamps, of all things. In the 1940s maybe, if he couldn’t find a phone box, but not after.). 

That is how he pictures it. What he fears. That Crowley will stumble unwitting across all this lurid outpouring at once and recoil with horror. 

In actuality it’s much less dramatic. It’s a silly dated television show, a ridiculous throwaway line about sexual assault that makes Aziraphale almost volcanically cross (He is not the only one. There are a record number of complaints). At the levity more than anything else, the suggestion that the victim would probably be grateful for the attention.

‘Steady on angel. They were different times, remember?’ Crowley is already reaching for the remote to change the channel. 

‘It’s revolting. It’s not a joking matter. Consent is.. important.’

‘So the internet tells me.’ 

‘And the law, of course.’ 

‘You’ve obviously studied the subject.’ Crowley teases. ‘Sit back down and be glad they don't make 'em like that any more. We’ll watch _Blue Planet_ or something.’ 

Aziraphale can’t settle though. The way it had just come out of nowhere, slap in the middle of a normal, pleasant evening with Crowley, makes him feel exposed. Makes him wonder if what he’s doing is really so harmless. He never used to be as unperturbed about it as he is now. How long before he thinks it’s a joking matter too? 

In the end Crowley turns the TV off and looks at him. 

‘I’m not sure I want to talk about it.’ Aziraphale says swiftly.

‘Angel, did something happen to you?’ Crowley looks so concerned, speaks so gently, that Aziraphale is horrified that he has given the impression of being a victim, even inadvertently, when he's the one at fault; but the last straw is when Crowley sees how close Aziraphale is to tears and actually apologises. 

‘Sorry, you said you don’t want to talk about it, but you know I’m here, right, if ever you need or want to..’

‘No.’ Aziraphale says quietly. ‘No darling, it’s nothing like that. It’s me whose.. well. I’ve had thoughts. Fantasies. It’s me who should be apologising.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘To you, specifically.’ 

‘Me, specifically.’ Crowley repeats. Pausing to let the words sink in, blinking his lovely serpentine eyes in the gentle light of the gold-fringed table lamps. ‘And exclusively?’ 

‘Actually, yes.’ Aziraphale admits. ‘Although that wasn’t really my point.’ 

‘No, your point was what a wicked angel you are.’ Crowley says. Smug both because his ego has just been stroked and because he’s successfully derailed Aziraphale’s attempt to beat himself up. ‘Thinking about ravishing your boyfriend over the kitchen table or whatever.’

‘For the record I have certainly never imagined doing anything to anyone over the kitchen table.’ Aziraphale says. ‘It sounds most unhygienic. And uncomfortable. And stop trying to distract me.’ 

‘OK Angel. Tell you what, I’ll crack open a bottle of wine and you can tell me all about it.’ 

But Aziraphale’s courage isn’t quite up to the mark. ‘Would you settle for being told a little about it? There may be a lot to.. what’s that phrase you use? A lot to process.’ 

‘OK.’ Crowley says, again. He means it too. ‘Let’s get a glass in your hand first, though.’ 

‘You spoil me, my dear.’ 

‘Eh.’ Crowley deflects, already at the old fashioned drinks cabinet with a corkscrew in his hand. ‘Like I don’t want a glass too.’


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley selects a bottle of red, something woodsy with a bit of heft, and pours out two large glasses. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit thrown by the way the evening’s gone, but lust is very much Hell’s department – if mostly because of the betrayal of trust it often involves – and it would take a lot to really shock him at this stage.

He’s only really surprised because it’s Aziraphale, the least warlike angel he’s ever met, and one he thought he knew everything about by now. All his little foibles and indulgences out in the open. This is a pretty big one to miss, and for a demon who used to pride himself on knowing how to tempt people, a bit embarrassing (professionally speaking).

‘So.’ He says, handing off both glasses to Aziraphale to hold so they don't spill while Crowley gets comfortable, legs curled under, toes poking the angel's thigh.

‘So?’ Aziraphale counters, taking a sedate sip and glancing sideways at him over the rim of their glasses, but Crowley just peers back and takes a large swallow, enjoying the way Aziraphale’s eyes automatically track the movement of his throat. That at least he had known for centuries, that Aziraphale lusted. It would have been hard to miss.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, resigns himself to telling it his own way. ‘I suppose, if I’m honest, it started more or less the same time I developed any sort of interest in that area at all. Any sort of libido at all.’ Another sip of wine punctuates one thought and leads to another. ‘I used to make excuses to myself at first, but really, I think it’s just me. It’s a part of who I am.’

‘So what do you want to do?’ 

‘Do?’

‘To me I mean.’

‘I don’t want to do anything.’ Aziraphale says swiftly. ‘I would never.’ But with Crowley’s eyes on him he realises that’s not quite true. ‘At any rate I would never do anything to hurt you.’ He corrects himself. 

He busies himself with the glass again, nervous. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be having this discussion.’ He feels too comfortable. Surely this should be a penance, not a comfort? 

‘But I want to know now. I’m curioussss.’ Crowley hisses on purpose – he knows Aziraphale likes it. ‘Don’t teassse angel.’

‘Really darling, if you insist on trying to tempt me I shall make you sit on the chaise longue by yourself.’

‘Alright then.’ Crowley sits as straight as his spine will let him and thinks for a bit, arranging his ideas. ‘So, always been there, as far as you know. But what is it you actually think about?’

‘Forcing myself on you.’

The words ‘yeah, got that bit, actually’ are on the tip of Crowley’s tongue. He swallows them. Aziraphale is only pausing for the right words. 

‘The details became increasingly elaborate over the years.’ He confesses. ‘But that is always the essence. I would fantasise about trapping you in some way and.. using you. Selfishly. While you resisted.’

His swift sideways glance to see how Crowley is taking it finds the demon looking thoughtful.

‘So.. maybe we could do that. I don’t see why not. I mean, unless you really don’t want to.’ 

‘Crowley, that’s very lovely of you, but I don’t think you’ve understood the ramifications. This isn’t a lemon meringue pie or a backstage tour of the Swan theatre, or one of the other many things you treated me to over the years. I don’t think you should be indulging me in it.’

‘Oi.’

‘It’s true. I’m quite spoilt enough.’ 

‘So you do want something then?’ Crowley asks, triumphant that he’s got Aziraphale to admit as much. He grins into his glass. ‘You know if you’re worried about my demonic pride we could pretend I tempted you to it.’ 

‘Oh behave yourself.’ Aziraphale says, pursing his lips against the familiar thrill at the thought. ‘Although I did think of that one actually.’

‘Go on.’ Crowley is openly enjoying this now, and surely, Aziraphale thinks, it can’t do any harm to just talk?

'Well..' He says. 'It was when they were rebuilding the baths at Ostia. I don’t know if you remember the construction at all? I imagined that somehow we’d got lost in there. Not really of course, what with being able to snap our way around the globe at that point, but anyway there was no-one about and it was getting late, and you were dressed for the bath itself..'

‘Basically naked.’ 

‘To tempt me, yes. And I decided I had had enough of you tempting me. So I.. gave in to temptation.’

‘Got to admit angel, that sounds like a score for me.’

‘Well no because.’ This part is more difficult. ‘You didn’t imagine I would go that far, and I.. made it very clear it was your own fault. When really of course..’

‘It’s fantasy, it’s fine. Tell me another.’ 

Aziraphale is definitely enjoying himself now. It’s rather a relief to get all this off his chest, and Crowley doesn’t seem shocked.

‘Well alright. do you remember the old coaching inns, where everyone used to change horses and sometimes when it was really busy, or when it was just horribly cold, they used to put travellers of the same sex in the same bed..’

They talk into the next morning, notwithstanding the occasional awkward moment, where Aziraphale needs reassurance that Crowley doesn’t think he would ever really mean him harm, or Crowley speculates, for the second time, that some of this is really quite doable, and is met with nothing but a vigorous shake of Aziraphale’s head. He lets it go. Pushing any harder will only meet with resistance. 

‘Goodness, the sun’s coming up.’ Aziraphale says at last. ‘I’ve kept you up all night.’

‘I’m ok.’ Crowley feels comfortably languid as he sets his wine glass down for the last time. ‘Come to bed with me angel. Keep me up a bit longer.’ 

‘Well.’ Aziraphale is more than happy to be tempted. ‘I think I will.’ 

The bedroom is Crowley’s domain, all silk next the skin and dark muted colours, and although Aziraphale has a neatly folded pair of pyjamas under the pillow, those are for sitting up and reading, not slithering under the covers with your demon lover and running greedy hands over every delicious inch. Crowley is unusually passive in the early morning light, sinking back into the luxurious pillows and practically purring encouragement as Aziraphale positions him where he wants him. 

Always so careful and gentle, and before tonight Crowley has never questioned it, never wanted anything else. 

Isn’t really sure he wants anything else now, as pleasure blooms like heat up his spine, and he feels Aziraphale’s breath warm on his neck, his hands on his hips, holding him steady, careful, pushing into him slowly, giving him time to adjust and savour being filled. 

They know this dance now, have got good at it since the world didn’t end, reading each other’s pleasure in the twitch of hips and limbs, the harshness of breath, the way eyes widen or snap shut, learnt to pace it so that can both find the pleasure they seek; or when that doesn’t quite work, how to use hands and mouths, to touch and kiss and help one another along. 

Afterwards, with Aziraphale’s arm tucked around his waist, his back snug against the comfortable curve of Aziraphale’s chest and belly, he murmurs sleepily. 

‘I can’t imagine it really. You’ve never been rough with me.’ 

‘Because I adore you, darling.’ Aziraphale’s lips are soft at the back of Crowley’s neck. The demon smiles with his eyes closed, waiting for sleep, but he’s started Aziraphale’s brain turning again now, and he can practically hear it before the angel speaks.

‘Crowley, you do see why I don’t want to rush into anything? I’m worried you’ll think I don’t love you quite as much. Or that I really think you deserve to be abused.’ He sighs and rolls Crowley over slightly so he can see his face as he speaks, even if Crowley does shut his eyes even tighter and can’t see him. 

‘Most of all I worry that you would continue to indulge me even if you were not enjoying it.’ He says. ‘Because you do my dear, you know you do, and that would be an indulgence too far.’

He presses another kiss to the demon’s hairline. ‘Promise me you wouldn’t do that. And.. think about what you’re promising, and mean it, and don’t just..’

‘Aziraphale, I don’t actually hate myself you know.’ Crowley really doesn’t want to be awake any longer, but he can tell it’s important to Aziraphale – hell, even for himself he can tell it’s important. Anyway no-one could sleep through this. ‘And I promise.’ He opens one eye to peruse the worry lines on the angel’s forehead, and frees his arm from under the duvet to turn and cuddle up more fully. ‘Honestly.’


	4. Chapter 4

It’s only the first of the conversations, but it shifts them into another gear, one where Aziraphale’s pulse quickens despite his moments of doubt and ‘what it if breaks everything’. One where Crowley is all curiosity, mostly about this new aspect of Aziraphale, who he thought he knew inside out, but about his own reaction too, to something he’s never tried. 

‘Nothing too elaborate at first.’ Aziraphale says. On the other hand Crowley’s own bed – their own bed – should be a sanctuary for him, so perhaps he’d rather not risk uncomfortable memories. 

‘On the another hand again.’ Crowley says. ‘I might as well be physically comfortable.’

‘Bedroom it is then.’ Aziraphale agrees. ‘Very well, we have our arena.’ There’s that certain relish in his voice that Crowley associates with dessert carts and sex as he goes on. ‘Now of course we also need some sort of scenario, and a safeword.’ 

‘Oh I dunno..’ Crowley tries, since Aziraphale is looking at him so hopefully, waiting for him to come up with his own safeword. ‘Lemon, margarine, stereo, catalepsy?’ 

‘Levity?’ Aziraphale suggests. ‘I think stereo will do quite nicely.’ 

They take a week from then to cool off, for Crowley to rethink, if he wants, and for Aziraphale to be just a bit of a bastard about reminding Crowley of his safeword from time to time. To ensure he cannot possibly forget it, of course, but also to bring what they are planning to the forefront of their minds again, visibly enjoying making Crowley flustered. 

He makes him repeat it even on the morning of the game itself. Crowley rolls his eyes on principle, although there is a knot of tension – enjoyable but a little frightening – winding up through him, and the reminder that it is a game, and he can back out at any time, is not actually unwelcome.

He reminds him again shortly before they begin. This time they’re both nervous, Aziraphale torn between worry that Crowley might change his mind and the worse anxiety that he might want to and think he can't. Crowley with the kind of first night nerves that would usually warrant a drink - but they're neither of them drinking. Not for this. 

Crowley's butterflies only become more agitated as he mounts the stairs to the bedroom, changes into his black pyjama bottoms as normal, and lays himself over the covers. 

Aziraphale is too excited to settle in the five minutes he waits before following him, picking things up and putting them down again, hardly aware what it is he is doing. Aroused and trying desperately to lower his expectations when he creeps up after and pushes the bedroom door open. 

Crowley is breathtaking, pretending to be asleep on his side, facing away, the pull of dark silk smooth and rounded out over his bum and thighs, the sharper curve of shoulder and cheek glowing pale in the light from the hallway. 

‘There you are.’ Aziraphale says. Perfectly innocuous words, but laced with things he doesn’t usually let himself express. Anger. Covetousness. ‘Sleeping again, I see. Don’t you ever worry how vulnerable you are, my enemy, in sleep?’

Crowley can feel the world tilt as the angel advances the few steps to the bed. ‘So beautiful.’ Aziraphale breathes, bending over him. ‘So tempting.’ 

His hand clutches into Crowley’s hair, and the demon comes awake all at once, eyes snapping open and body squirming to get away. 

There is a short, frantic little tussle, but Crowley is already trapped, unable to raise his head from the pillow as the angel straddles his waist to pin his body too. 

Aziraphale has the superior weight. Crowley goes still, panting, realising he cannot win this by force. 

He tries reason. ‘Aziraphale?’ He asks, face crushed to the pillow. ‘I.. what are you doing?’ 

‘Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.’ The angel says.

His clutch on Crowley’s hair tightens enough to hurt, not beyond what, within reason, they’ve agreed, but it’s the first time he’s ever consciously hurt Crowley and it’s astonishing what an edge it gives. 

Then he is vanishing Crowley’s clothes with a snap of the fingers and pushing him down again as he tries to get up. 

‘Don’t make a fuss.’ 

‘But we don’t do this.’ Crowley protests as he’s manhandled down the bed, trying to kick once his legs are free; but he finds himself grabbed, pulled further down again, his thighs parted either side of the fully clad angel. 

‘But we’re going to.’ Aziraphale says firmly. Taking his shoulders – those sharp, slender shoulders - and pushing Crowley face forward against the sheets for the third time, leaning over to hold him there, to growl into his ear so there can be no ambiguity. ‘Or did you think I’d let you tease me forever?’ 

‘I don’t.. I didn’t.’ Crowley is wide-eyed, trying to look over his shoulder as Aziraphale sits back. ‘I.. no, don’t.’ 

Again Aziraphale pushes him down. This time Crowley lies still, shivering a little as he hears the pop of a bottle cap, feels slick fingers probe between his parted legs. 

‘You can’t, surely you can’t..’

‘You’re a demon, Crowley. I don’t think hurting a demon really counts, do you?’

Aziraphale knows Crowley intimately, even in the half dark of the room, but he pretends to fumble, giving Crowley time enough to end this now if it’s too much, before he pushes fingers into him, opening him up too quickly, selfishly. 

Crowley keens softly into the pillow at the burn of it, hips shuddering minutely. He’s so good. Feels so good, even on Aziraphale’s fingers. Tight and hot. 

‘Don’t, please don’t.’ 

‘Are you begging for mercy now, fiend?’ Aziraphale is mocking. Cruel. There is a rustle of cloth, the sound of buttons being undone. 

‘Aziraphale..’ Whatever Crowley was going to say dissolves into babble as Aziraphale flips him over onto his back with what seems almost casual ease. 

‘I want to see your face when I do this.’ The angel tells him, pushing Crowley’s knees up to expose him again. 

‘No, no..’ Crowley shakes his head frantically, a blur of movement and arms coming up to push hard at Aziraphale’s shoulders (an uppercut would almost certainly be more effective, but then so would simply clicking his fingers and vanishing. This is not reality). 

There is a kind of hysteria, just under the surface, which Crowley is riding without getting too far in. He is actually trembling, his voice has genuinely shifted pitch, but he’s also every bit as aroused as having sex with Aziraphale usually makes him. His back arches as Aziraphale pushes his cock in, sweetly sore, and Aziraphale pulls his arms out of the way so he can see Crowley’s expression, startled and mouthing silent protests. 

There are no tears, Crowley has never been able to cry to order, but the way his face twists, as if he might cry, sets off a flare of brute pleasure that dulls any doubts Aziraphale might have. 

There will be bruises on Crowley’s hip where Aziraphale has hold of it. Probably on his wrists too. Marks of possession. 

Now he’s seated himself, Aziraphale sets a gruelling pace. There is no suggestion of mutual satisfaction. Crowley is there to be disciplined. Demoralised. 

He takes his punishment with bursts of sound, as though being fucked were driving the air from his lungs. His fingers clutch at the smooth sheen of the sheets, his hair is in disarray, bright as flame against grey silk. He has fallen back, defeated, and oh it’s bliss to see him take it, to have and not think of the consequences. To enjoy the pure headlong rush into physical pleasure, gluttonous and uncomplicated. 

Crowley shudders as Aziraphale comes and pulls away, panting and catching his breath while Crowley lies naked, still half beneath him. Aroused and undone, but not even close to his own climax yet. 

‘Finish yourself off.’ Aziraphale orders. 

‘I’d rather not.’ Crowley’s voice is shaking. It’s not all acting. He’s not this good an actor. 

‘I don’t care what you’d rather. I want to watch.’ 

Crowley cannot make himself blush with humiliation, but he does his best to feign reluctance by turning his head away until Aziraphale grips his jaw and forces him to turn back again. 

‘I want to watch.’ He snarls. ‘Don’t make me say it a third time.’


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley wraps one hot hand around his own erection to pleasure himself, eyes on the ceiling, barely conscious of the intensity with which he is being studied. 

Arousal thrums just under the skin, flares bright again at his own touch, drugs his senses. 

He’s only semi aware of Aziraphale sitting back to take him in properly; the long sinuous shape of him, the busy working of his fist, exposing and hiding the bullet head of his cock as he works his foreskin up and down in smooth, proficient movement. The parting of his lips over gasps, shorter and increasingly urgent as he gets closer to climax, the thrusting of his hips up to meet his closed fist. 

His face is delightful. Aziraphale is drinking in every change, every nuance, scrutinising as Crowley’s arousal is laid bare, ogling his body in a way that has never felt quite right before. 

He can't fail to notice that Crowley’s movements are already growing sharper, less smooth, more desperate, his throat working around a series of guttural moans that make Aziraphale want to lay his hand over the long sinews of Crowley’s neck, against his Adam’s apple, and feel the sound escape past his fingers. 

Within seconds Crowley’s hips are arcing off the mattress, cock spasming in his grasp, fist still milking the last of his come across his stomach. 

With his orgasm come tears, finally. Climax has never made him cry before, but there they are, wet and unexpected and disturbingly real as his face crumples and he lets Aziraphale gather him into his embrace, hides his face against the angel’s chest, yielding to the comfort of strong arms around him, warmth against his own sudden coldness. 

‘Ssh my love, it’s alright.’ There’s more warmth from somewhere, Aziraphale cleaning him up, pulling the duvet over them, murmuring soothing things. Telling him how lovely he was. 

It’s too early to sleep, but Crowley lets his eyes close, lets the words wash over him. Yawning when Aziraphale finally says something coherent that isn’t just soothing noise.

‘Thank you for indulging me.’ 

‘S’okay.’ 

‘Are you quite alright?’ 

‘Not yet. Will be in a sec. Just..’ 

Aziraphale’s fingers continue to stroke through his hair. ‘Of course.’ 

‘Are you.. I mean did you.’

Aziraphale hesitates for a fraction of a second. Crowley is in a vulnerable state right now. He doesn’t want to put pressure, but it’s best to be truthful, in the long run. 

‘It _was_ rather satisfying, yes.’ 

Crowley snorts out a laugh somewhere against the tear damp collar of Aziraphale’s shirt. 

There’s going to be a lot to discuss, Aziraphale is sure, before they decide if they’re ever going to do anything like this again, but the discussions are enjoyable in themselves, and there is plenty of time to get to them. 

Right now this moment, with Crowley cradled naked in his arms, reassured all is well or very shortly going to be well, is more important. 

In addition to being one of his favourite fantasies, of course.


End file.
